by Rico, Lauren
I shake my head at him in disbelief.
“What has he done to make you hate him so much?”
He has no response. I watch him, lips pursed, arms folded across his chest. I take a step toward him, to touch him but he recoils. Suddenly my concern morphs into irritation.
“Look at you. You’re so jealous you can’t see straight. You can’t stand the idea that there is another man in my life. Someone else who wants to take care of me, support me, love me. I never lied to you, Matthew. Never. You’ve always known the way it was between us.”
“You’re right, I’m jealous. And you’re right, I have always– I will always want more from you than you are able to give. But this isn’t that, Julia. If it were someone else- anyone else I wouldn’t be this angry.”
His face softens and he comes toward me again, putting his hands on my now-crossed forearms.
“Julia, I just need you to trust me on this,” he says quietly.
I stare into his eyes for a moment before speaking again, my tone icier than I thought possible.
“No,” I say simply.
His eyebrows shoot up and he cocks his head to the side if he’s misheard me.
“Julia…”
“No. I do not trust you on this,” I repeat.
“Please listen to me. I’m only thinking about…”
“Yourself. You are only thinking about yourself and how my relationship with Jeremy is going to affect you.”
I can feel my heart rate start to pick up, and I’m breathing heavier now.
“What did you think, Matthew? That if you chased away every man in my life I’d have no choice but to be with you?”
He’s taken aback as I go on the offensive.
“Julia, the only thing I want is for you to be happy.”
“I am. So please, get the hell out of my way.”
All of a sudden, my voice sounds loud in my own ears. I’m done. I turn and go to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. As I collapse on the bed in a heap of tears I half expect to hear his soft knock. It doesn’t come.
21
When I wake up, alone in my bed for the first time in weeks, it takes me a minute to recall the events of the night before. I’m still dressed in the same skirt and blouse; my makeup is all over the pillow. Whether it rubbed off or I cried it off, I can’t say. In the bathroom mirror, I confirm my suspicions that I look a fright. Under a hot, steamy shower, I let the remnants of yesterday wash off my body and down the drain. Time to start fresh today.
On my dresser, Matthew’s face stares out at me from the old photograph. Maybe it’s guilt, but it seems to be taunting me. I move it face down, so I won’t have to see it anymore. And then, there’s the other picture. The one with my parents. I run a finger over the glass above my father’s young, strong, handsome face. He didn’t look like that the last time I saw him, the only time I’ve seen him since… well, since I was eight years old.
It was the day of high school graduation, a chilly day for June on Long Island, and I was wishing I’d worn something a little warmer under my graduation gown. There was a big reception after the ceremony, and I knew I’d be miserable if I didn’t go and get my sweater from Matthew’s car. By then, it had been nearly a decade since I’d seen my father and I almost walked past him. Actually, I did walk past him. I was coming back from the parking lot, he was going towards it. I stopped and turned slowly and found that he had done the same. We were staring at one another, separated by only five feet.
The man who stood before me at that instant looked shockingly different than the man I’d known ten years earlier. He just seemed tired, like a man who had been beaten down by life. There was no trace of anger in his eyes then, just sadness and resignation.
For his part, my father took one long look at me, head to toe and offered a small smile.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, “just like your mother.”
Until that very moment I didn’t know you could be drawn to and repelled by a person at the same time. I couldn’t help myself; I took a step toward him.
“Daddy…”
But, he turned his back to me and started to walk away before I could say another word. When I started to follow him I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. I tried to shake it off but I couldn’t. It was Matthew pulling me back.
“Let go!” I said with irritation.
He shook his head silently.
“Matthew, let me go!” I yelled louder as every second my father was moving further away. I don’t know what I wanted to say to him or what I wanted him to say to me. I only know that somewhere deep inside me, there was this longing for my father.
When I gave one more violent push away from him, Matthew wrapped his arms around me. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp. I pounded his chest with my fists and cursed him but he just held me tighter. Over his shoulder I could see my father getting into his car.
“Daddy!” I screamed. “Daddy, come back!”
He put the car into reverse and drove away. It was like my mother all over again.
Long after Rex had disappeared around the corner, I stood there, sobbing in Matthew’s unyielding embrace. Pathetic, inconsolable wailing that eventually lapsed into gasps and hiccups and silent retching. And then, I was sliding, slipping toward the ground into a puddle of tears.
I sigh and fight back the urge to cry now, putting on clean clothes, applying fresh makeup and preparing myself to face the light of day… and Matthew. The apartment is quiet. I stick my head into his room, but the bed hasn’t been slept in. Out in the living room. I spot a sheet of paper on the coffee table with my name on it.
Julia, I’m sorry, I just can’t be here right now. Good luck with your audition on Monday. I love you. -Matthew
This time, when the tears spring to my eyes, I don’t fight them. I let them pool and slip down my cheeks, leaving long tracks in their wake. This feels so wrong and off-balance. Sure, we’ve argued before. But nothing like last night. He looked so hurt when I said I didn’t trust him. Why does it have to be so complicated? Why can’t I have them both in my life? I shouldn’t have to choose. In fact, I refuse to choose. Not now, at least.
I blow my nose and splash some cold water over my face. Matthew is everywhere in this apartment. I can see his figure, I can hear his voice. I just can’t be here right now, so I grab my cello and head over to the practice rooms, which have been abandoned for the weekend.
There, in my safe little cubicle, the music comforts and soothes me. I run the lines again and again, eyes closed, breathing in time with the music. All of my frustration and anger pour out of me, and into the cello.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
I’ve been there close to two hours when the sound of the heavy, soundproof door opening pulls me from my musical reverie. Jeremy lets himself in and closes the door. He leans back against it and looks at me expectantly.
“Well?” he asks when I don’t immediately offer comment.
“Well... it got ugly. Really, really ugly. We both said some things we didn’t mean. I went to bed and he left. I think he’s gone back to the Walton Quartet tour.”
“How are you?”
I shake my head sadly.
“I feel like my heart is breaking. I love him but I also love…” I stop myself right before I can say it, but it’s obvious to us both where my sentiment was headed.
A slow smile spreads across his lovely face, and his eyes do that crinkly thing again.
“I love you, too,” he says softly. And then he seems to have a thought. “Come on. Let’s cheer you up. There’s this great little bakery that I’d love to show you.”
“Really, Jeremy? You think some muffins and a cookie are going to take my mind off of this?”
Now he draws his eyebrows together, looking rather stern.
“Miss James, if you don’t behave yourself I might have to discipline you later,” he says with a tone that promises anything but punishment.
> I give a half-hearted smile.
“Let me put my cello in my locker. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”
“Sir.”
“What?”
“That’s ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes, Sir.’”
I have to bite my lip to keep from snickering. I put on my best fake-contrite face and nod solemnly.
“Of course. Sir. May I go now, Sir?”
“Get outta here,” he says, holding the door open for me as I pack up. “I’ll deal with you later!”
“I certainly hope so,” I mutter under my breath as I pass him in the doorway. He swats my backside and I jump with a giggle. I do love him. I think. Maybe.
He’s chatting with Gordon the security guard when I make my way down to the lobby.
“Hi, Gordon,” I say with a wave.
“Hi there, Julia. Word has it you’re the one to beat this week!”
I shrug my shoulders.
“I don’t know, it’s anyone’s game. Besides,” I say, putting a hand on Jeremy’s arm, “this guy is the best horn player I’ve ever heard. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took the whole thing.”
I catch Jeremy looking at me a little oddly. He seems surprised. Maybe a bit touched? I get the distinct impression I’ve pleased him with my comment. Maybe I need to compliment him more often if it makes him that happy.
He takes my hand and pulls me out the lobby doors, out into the bright, Saturday morning sun. It’s chilly, but we move briskly down the block to the subway station. We get off at Thirty-fourth Street, I assume, to transfer to another line. But he leads me off the platform and downstairs to the heart of Penn Station. It’s still pretty early and the terminal is relatively quiet, with a handful of travelers waiting for trains eastward. I look up at the huge wreaths hanging from the ceiling and the shiny gold garlands that are draped everywhere. I can barely keep up with Jeremy as he walks purposefully toward the Long Island Rail Road tracks.
“Jeremy, where is this place?” I ask suspiciously.
He stops in the middle of the grand hallway and faces me.
“Do you trust me?”
I wince a little. The question takes me back to the night before, with Matthew. But I know the answer to it now, just as I did then.
“Yes.” I say this simply and confidently. I’m rewarded with that smile.
“Good.”
He takes a quick look at the huge board listing the outgoing trains.
“Okay, come on,” he says, snatching my hand and pulling me along with him.
“What? Where are we going? You can’t mean to get on a train…”
But if Jeremy hears my protests he doesn’t respond. We dart through the terminal and he leads me down the steep steps onto the platform of track nineteen.
“All aboard!” the conductor hollers.
I try to get a glimpse of where the train is going but Jeremy pulls me into a car just as the doors are closing.
“Jeremy! Where are we going?” I demand when he has situated us in a pair of seats.
“Nine fifteen train to Ronkonkoma!” the speaker crackles.
“Ronkonkoma? Are you crazy? We’ve got to get off at Jamaica and go back.”
“I love going through the tunnels. Don’t you?”
“What?”
“The tunnels. They’re cool. And then you come up and out into the daylight.”
“Jeremy…”
“Jules, you said you trust me. So trust me, okay?”
How can I possibly disagree with that chiseled, slightly stubbly jaw? He’s gorgeous. And he wants to spend time with me; to take me on an adventure.
I nod my head and sit back to look out the window.
He’s right, the tunnel is kind of cool.
22
If I had the impression that Ronkonkoma was our final destination, I’m wrong. We get off on the B track and walk right across the platform to an old diesel train sitting on the A track. I don’t ask where this one is going, just follow him to the upper level of the double-decker train.
“I really wish you’d just tell me where we’re headed,” I mumble.
“You’ve got to embrace the moment, Jules,” Jeremy says with a broad smile. “Carpe the fuck out of this diem!”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay, okay!” I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender, laughing at his bastardization of the phrase. “Since when are you Mr. Positivity?”
“Oh, Jules, you’re just beginning to scratch my surface.”
“Yes, I’m starting to see that.”
As our second train pulls out, I settle myself in, and watch as the passing landscape flits by outside the window. I know this area a little. It’s close to where Matthew and I grew up. I know that once we clear Riverhead we’ll be entering what’s considered by many to be “Old Long Island,” quaint hamlets separated by family farms. This area is a throwback to a time before suburban sprawl brought strip malls, packed parkways, and big box stores.
But now, facing backwards on the chugging diesel of the LIRR, I see all that melt away. As we pass through some of the small towns I see houses covered in blinking holiday lights, huge blow-up snow globes on their front lawns. I wonder what Christmas will be like inside those houses. Maybe the family sitting down to Christmas brunch, still in their pajamas from a morning of opening presents. Yes, I like that image.
“What’re you thinking about?” comes Jeremy’s voice in my ear.
“Hmmm? Oh, just how nice it would be to have family around this time of the year,” I say distractedly.
“How do you usually spend your holiday break? That is, when you’re not being hijacked by a crazy horn player?”
“Hijacked. Yeah, that feels about right,” I laugh a little. “Uh… I don’t know. Matthew usually cooks a big dinner. Sometimes we have friends over.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is. Relaxed, low-drama. Hey...” I turn to face him. “You know, I’m so sorry, Jeremy. It’s been nearly three weeks, and we’ve never even talked about your family. I don’t even know where you’re from.”
“Illinois. A little town about an hour out of Chicago called Owl Bridge.”
“Are your folks still there?”
“As far as I know.”
“Not so close then?”
“Not really.”
I nod as if I understand. But I don’t. Not really.
He reaches over and pushes a strand of hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“My mom calls your color strawberry blonde.”
“Tell me about her,” I say on impulse.
He screws-up his face as if he’s thinking hard.
“Ah, well, her name is Trudy and she’s a kindergarten teacher. She’s a great cook and a terrible driver.”
“And your father?”
“Oh, Danny Corrigan is a good Irishman. Works hard, drinks harder. He’s a mechanic. Taught us all about cars when we were little. I was helping out in his shop by the time I was fourteen. He wasn’t thrilled when both of his boys went into music. He was hoping at least one of us would take over the business.”
“Is that why you’re estranged?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s part of it. Seems like he just never got me. Things are better with my parents and Brett. He’s sort of the lifeline between all of us.”
“Huh,” I say distractedly.
“You don’t approve?”
“Oh, no. I mean it’s none of my business either way. I just wish I had family to spend the holidays with. Now it looks like I won’t even have Matthew. He’s so angry I don’t know if he’ll come back at all.”
I don’t realize until just this moment that I really believe this.
Jeremy kisses the top of my head.
“It’s going to be alright, Jules. He’ll come around.”
I don’t ask any more questions, and he doesn’t offer any more details. I rest my head on his shoulder, and we spend the next half hour in companionable si
lence.
“Next stop, Montauk! Montauk is the final stop on this train. Please be sure to take all your belongings and watch the gap when exiting the train. Next and final stop, Montauk!” the speaker crackles.
“I guess we’re headed to Montauk, then?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm.
“Smart ass,” he mutters, getting to his feet and offering me a hand up.
As we step off the train I’m met by the smell of the sea. We are in the heart of the beach town, which is sleepy, at least for the moment. Come spring, the city folk and tourists will descend upon the tiny village, filling its shops and restaurants, snatching up exorbitantly priced hotel rooms and rental properties. The locals will complain bitterly amongst themselves, and breathe a sigh of relief when the last exotic car rolls out onto Montauk Highway headed west. By the time the daffodils are out, they’ll be ready to do it all again.
But right now, on a winter Saturday morning, it’s as if we have the whole place to ourselves. Granted, there isn’t a whole lot open for us to enjoy. Most of the boutiques and restaurants close in the off-season. Still, the whitewashed charm of this casual community speaks to me. The Pine Barrens give way to the sand dunes, which give way to the inky blue waters of the Atlantic. It is stunningly beautiful.
The main drag isn’t especially big but it has everything one might look for during a leisurely week at the beach with family and friends. A pizza parlor, an ice cream shop and a pancake house are all within walking distance. Jeremy leads me through the crosswalk, picking up the pace excitedly.
“This is the place,” he says as we reach the bakery. It is an unremarkable storefront.
“Long way to come for a cup of coffee,” I mumble as I peer into the window.
“Well, first of all, it’s not just any cup of coffee,” he says, pointing to a sign that reads ‘Best Coffee in Town!’ “And we’re not just here for the coffee. I’ve been dreaming about this place for months, and you’re about to find out why.”
We escape the chilly morning air into the warmth of the tiny shop. There’s barely enough room for half a dozen people. Wide plank oak floors and paneling serve as backdrop for a vintage cabinet filled with pastries, cakes and cookies. The wall behind the counter is lined with shelves holding huge baskets. Nestled inside of them are loaves of bread in every size, shape and color.